


There's no You and Me, This Impossible Year

by metus_noctis



Series: Of Consulting Detectives and Bloggers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst, Based On A Panic! At The Disco Song, Blood, Character Death, Christmas, Christmas Angst, Christmas at 221B Baker Street, Crying John, Grief/Mourning, Hurt John Watson, John Watson Misses Sherlock Holmes, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, M/M, Reichenbach Angst, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 00:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20054713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metus_noctis/pseuds/metus_noctis
Summary: All the guests at the partyThey're so insincereThey just intrude and excludeThis impossible yearThere's no you and meThis impossible yearOnly heartache and heartbreakAnd gin made of tears





	There's no You and Me, This Impossible Year

**Author's Note:**

> because who DOESN'T need some good ol' Christmas johnlock angst in the middle of summer?

* * *

_There's no sunshine_   
_This impossible year_   
_Only black days and sky grey_   
_And clouds full of fear_   
_And storms full of sorrow_   
_That won't disappear_   
_Just typhoons and monsoons_   
_This impossible year_

* * *

John looks out the foggy window of Molly's little home. It's dark outside, but despite the clock striking close to 12, the dark clouds of the night are still visible. It had rained before, for hours on end it had seemed, and John had just watched, watched as the sky cried raindrops until his own cheeks strained with drained tears and he had to close his eyes and force them away in order to stop their flow. By now, he was already used to this. It had rained so much this year in London, as if the weather was grieving with him over the loss of a great man. There was no sunshine, no clear skies, no warmth. Just the dead cold of winter, the pooling rain and occasionally, the heavy snow. There was not one day that John looked outside and there were warm hues and calm and peace. But then again, that was London for you. All rain and snow and damp pavements and frosted windows. It was always cool blues and greys and blacks, loss and grief. And it was all the same now of all days; Christmas, the most beautiful holiday of all and John's personal favourite. Or, at least, what used to be his favourite, before the recent events of the so-called Reichenbach Fall.

You see, Christmas was always about spending time with your family and friends, and your most loved ones, and your annoyingly decent neighbours, and the barking dogs down the block, all in peace, singing Christmas carols, eating delicious food, and drinking champagne until passed out or giggling frantically, or worse. That's what it was supposed to be, just a party of lovely people gathering together, sharing wishes and giving gifts and being _happy_. But there was no happiness left for John Watson, not anymore. Not after what had happened months ago, after one tall, dark, mysterious bloke had come in, only to vanish from his life, taking it all away with him in the process.

Last Christmas, John had spent with few of his friends in the domecity of their-- _his_, little flat at 221B Baker Street, he had to remind himself. _His_ flat, in 221B Baker Street, _just his_, no one elses. That was just the way it was and nothing or no one could change that. It was simple, he recalled, but so heart-warming, with Sherlock playing his violin oh-so-perfectly, as he always was, right next to the overly-decorated fireplace, and with Sherlock making the whole room awkwardly stare within each other, because of his deductions, those damn, correct, _rude_ deductions, and with Sherlock complaining about clichés, and with _Sherlock_, _Sherlock_, _Sherlock_...

Last Christmas was _Sherlock_. Warm fire, wool knitted Christmasy sweaters, overly expensive champagne (_many thanks to Mycroft for that_), silly, inappropriate gifts, soft violin tunes, and _Sherlock_. The flat was filled with all sorts of people; shy and awkward Molly Hooper, amazing-as-always Mrs Hudson, tired but thankful Lestrade, quite-frankly-annoying Jane or whatever-her-name-was that was John's girlfriend at the time, cliché-loving John, and then there was Sherlock, most important Sherlock, beautiful, beautiful Sherlock, sulky, witty Sherlock, soft and _perfect_ Sherlock, _dead and gone Sherlock_\---

John's throat fills with spikes at the thought.

Generally speaking, last Christmas was warm and pleasant and perfect and everything this year's Christmas was not.

* * *

_There's no good times_   
_This impossible year_   
_Just a beachfront of bad blood_   
_And a coast that's unclear_

* * *

John darts his gaze across the snow-littered houses and white trees. The bright snow makes him think of Sherlock more than he already was, which was an accomplishment, so to speak, considering the fact that the torn old sod had his mind tormented by the dark and curly detective every passing second of the day, every day. His skin was as pale as snow, it had always been, glowing so beautifully in the dark of their apartment late at night when John found no sleep and wandered into the living room just to see him standing there, like a ghost, violin in hand, deep in his thoughts (_but then again, what could one expect, with a man, such an impossible man, as Sherlock Holmes_). There were times when he thought the famous detective might actually be a phantom of sorts. All these impossible deductions, the genius epiphanies, all seems almost too good to be true. These times, were almost every night this year.

But that wasn't just it; he knew Sherlock loved the snow. He'd always denied it, said it was just ordinary bulky water, that it was common, basic, that it didn't excite him. But John knew so much better, oh, John knew so so much better, because he always saw -- always noticed the glint of bliss in the mad genius's icy blue orbs whenever small flakes danced around the London sky, or the tiny, breathy giggle of delight at the feel of cold whiteness against his black dress shoes as he walked around Central London, audible to only those who dared to listen for it. But, nevertheless, no matter how hard John pressed, Sherlock would always deny it, for some odd reason. And after specs of fluffy ice tinted the windowsills, all John could do was smile fondly at him and drag him outside anyway, despite his protests. Sherlock would proceed putting up his facade until John squashed a snowball onto his long, heavy coat, and then he'd fake an overdramatic gasp, and that would be it -- John would fall into an endless pit of laughter, and the detective would prepare a remarkably bigger snowball aimed his away as he did the same. Whenever they'd finished their little break, usually hours later, Sherlock would be out of breath, with chapped pink lips and a beautiful flush across his cheeks and nose, curls ruffled and crazy with white spots covering most of their maroon mess. It truly was unbelievable, and impossibly endearing, how a good snowball fight could reduce the stone-cold detective to a flushed giggling child. John loved the sight more than he ever admitted he did.

The conclusion John comes to is that the sky is not allowed to snow when Sherlock Holmes isn't there to caress it with his bony fingers, and his dark curls spotted with cold white flakes.

John's mind drifts him back to _that_ day. How Sherlock had cried silent tears of sorrow and sadness with a godforsaken _goodbye_. A final lock of his beautiful grey blues with his own and then nothing. Just pure nothingness. Just a body, pliant and dead, pale silky skin littered with dark blood and icy blues now lifeless and gone. His wrist held no pulse, his dark curls planted on a head with a non-functioning brain inside. John had looked at him and his own heart had stopped. His eyes were wide and his hands flied everywhere, trying to get a hold of him, anything that's him, even a cold, lifeless finger, and after a tight grip of his left hand he was dragged back and away from the man he so dearly loved. The man who had saved him. The man who was now rotting away in the sharp clean morgue of St. Bart's. He felt like screaming. He wanted to scream. _Needed it_, even. Maybe he did. At this rate, it was impossible to know the difference between fake and real, wrong and right, death and life. All he knew was that, whether real or not, his best friend, the ever-knowing detective genius, was lying face down and stone cold on some dirty pavement, completely, and utterly, _dead_. John had cried so hard while clutching one of Sherlock's huge coats that night that he passed out for the entirety of the day ahead of him.

The next day, and the day after that, and every single day leading up to the sad present, there wasn't one time that John had smiled genuinely. No, after the brightest grins and longest, most hearty laughs that Sherlock had gifted him in the span of those beautiful, bitter two years, there was nothing just merely as beautiful or funny or smart as the man he had lost forever. No one could compete with him, and if anyone even _dared_, John would be on his feet with his fist down their throats and a few good bone-breaking punches within the second. No one, in the entirety of the word, would ever be able to fill the void that Sherlock Holmes had left behind.

* * *

_All the guests at the party_   
_They're so insincere_   
_They just intrude and exclude_   
_This impossible year_   
_There's no you and me_   
_This impossible year_   
_Only heartache and heartbreak_   
_And gin made of tears_

* * *

John had only agreed to come to Molly's to celebrate because he didn't want to see another disappointed look on any of his friends' faces. He was so sick and tired of those, their pity, and even though they were all Sherlock's friends too, John knew they were somewhat over it already. They'd celebrated like nothing was wrong and John felt his empty stomach clench at their insincerity. _How dare_ _they_, he had thought, _do as much as act joyful and festive when Sherlock's lifeless corpse is lying dead and never coming back on the morgue of St Bartholomeow's just mere miles away from them_. John swore he'd never forgive them for forgetting him. It didn't once cross his mind that all the others were missing the detective so terribly, just like him, only they had lives beside him, and needed to find ways to cope in order not to fall completely out of line. In his mind, his tired, _traumatised_ mind, they had simply forgotten him.

Plenty of them, including Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly, had come up to him to say hello and have a friendly chat. The only response they ever got was a tight-lipped, forced smile and a promise that he's okay and they were off to celebrate carelessly once again. John had picked up a cup of gin from the kitchen, had downed it in one go, had swallowed thoughts of Sherlock down with another, and was now sporting his third of the night with his back to the party and his front facing the snow-painted window. This way, it was easier to let his emotions overwhelm him into tears, without being noticed. He supposed the gin was also a great hiding place for the salty droplets falling from his tired eyes. No one but him could tell, as he would be able to taste them on the strong alcohol and distinguish them. He wonders if Sherlock would be able to tell and settles with the thought that _yes_, he would in fact figure him out like he always did. He allows himself a bittersweet smile at the thought.

From the corner of his eye, he can see a lean dark figure with a saddened smile and wild dark curls but when he turns his neck so fast it strains, just to check, all he's met with is the boring beige walls of Molly's living room and he sighs. He knows he's imagining things, it's borderline on impossible not to, at this point, but still deep inside, he wishes for his sick hallucinations to be real and for Sherlock to be there for him to hold his cold hand and ruffle his messy curls and kiss his rosy cheek and trap his lean torso against him. He wishes for Sherlock to be there, share a drink with him and have a laugh for God knows what reason, and maybe follow him outside and play with him in the snow, just like old times. John wishes for one last snowball fight with Sherlock, just the two of them in the world, and for one last chance to hold the madman's flaming cheeks in his hands and snog him with all his might. At the realisation that this will never happen, John curses his foolishness and cowardice to do it before it was too late. He thinks about what would have happened then and if Sherlock's end would have been prevented at all. Even though he knows it wouldn't, how could it, he still selfishly blames himself for not stirring the chance as if it could have saved him.

* * *

_The bitter pill I swallow_   
_The scars souvenir_   
_That tattoo, your last bruise_   
_This impossible year_

* * *

He tries not to think about what Sherlock had looked like on the pavement of St Bartholomeow's with bruises and cuts leaking blood out of his face in every possible direction. He tries not to think about how beautiful he looked even at his last moments. He tries not to think about his cold hand slipping from his grip and the coat he was wearing dancing dramatically on the dirty, blood-thick ground. He tries and tries, but he can't help himself. His new therapist gives him sleeping pills to help him rest and he downs a couple each time to make the slumber come to him faster. He craves the sleep, the hour-lengthy slip from reality where he can think of Sherlock and be with him, only to wake up in cold sweat afterwards. But it's still worth it. A minute on this earth without Sherlock Holmes is a minute not worth spending. And if he has a chance to pass minutes and hours blacked out with Sherlock Holmes in his arms? John won't miss it for the world. Sometimes, the strong doses of medicine and the deep strain of his nerves is worth it all, even as the dreams get more gruesome by the day.

* * *

_There's never air to breathe_   
_There's never in-betweens_   
_These nightmares always hang on past the dream_

* * *

When he feels his lungs squeeze and his breaths can only come ragged, he excuses himself and leaves the place with steps heavier than hard rocks. He dashes out onto the busy streets of London and runs until his knees almost give out as he reaches his destination. And with slow, tentative steps towards it, he comes to a halt.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock”, he whispers, his eyes welling with warm tears as his saddened smile locks onto the grey marble. He steps closer, until it's too much and he sinks down onto the dirt, clutching the gravestone in his arms in a bone-breaking hold.

“I miss you”, he cries, and the already wet grass soaks even further with a sea of his tears. He only then realises the heavy rain that had come replacing the thin snow, but he doesn't care; the ground beneath him is cold and damp and there's mud littering his freshly washed clothes, yet he still does not care. Not when he's half laying there, his beloved, or whatever had remained of him, tightly trapped in his embrace. He pulls at the cold material of the gravestone, as if that will wake Sherlock from the dead and bring him back, but it doesn't, and John is just left there, sobbing loudly and holding onto it for dear life. “_God_, Sherlock, I miss you. I miss you _so much.”_

From the dark corners where the bushes trim, there's a soft crinkling of leaves but John pays it no mind. It's possible that John hasn't even heard it over the pained sounds he's making himself. But it's there, always there, unseen but there. Through thick and thin (_John had been experiencing the former and that only lately_), it's always there. John doesn't have to know.

John curls himself up beside the gravestone and cuddles it in an otherwise awkward position, but at this point, nothing really matters except the loss of someone great. And if holding his gravestone is the closest he'll ever come to holding Sherlock again, then he'll take what he can and say thank you. He closes his eyes and sighs brokenly, his cold hand reaching out to brush his fingers gingerly on top of the dark marble.

“Please come home. Please come back to me.”, he finally says, and the depression of it all, and the endless tears, and the alcohol burning in his vains, it's finally all too much and he eventually passes out on the frost of the cemetery. There's another brushing of leaves somewhere near but it goes unnoticed once more. So when a tall figure approaches, when there's a shuffling and then there's a long, warm coat draped over John in a protective manner, the army doctor is once again, completely oblivious.

“Merry Christmas, John”, they say, and disappear into the night.

* * *

_There's no sunshine_   
_There's no you and me_   
_There's no good times_   
_This impossible year_

* * *


End file.
